


full throttle

by bunot



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Crush, High School, M/M, Olympics, Professional Volleyball Teams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25778677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunot/pseuds/bunot
Summary: Atsumu's attitude comes unsolicited, like the mess of brown and blood right before a bruise.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Ojiro Aran
Comments: 12
Kudos: 121





	full throttle

**Author's Note:**

> half of me feels like i should apologize because i so often write this full-blown, over-the-years love extravaganza for each of my pairings.
> 
> the other half will not be apologizing because i think that atsuaran deserves one anyways

**ACT I. saying things before reading a room**

Admiration starts in the fourth grade.

At ten years old, Atsumu is only a novice in the art of presenting himself larger than life. He's got a mouth that runs itself to the brink of destruction and a collection of immortal stitches. He can tell stories of sprinting too fast with his shoes untied and the horror of being shoved out of a tree by the evil mirrored image of himself.

He's here with Osamu today on a five-hour experiment to see who can withstand these hardwood floors longer. Atsumu's not sure yet if his sneakers will stain like wine or wax crayon, but he knows he is going to make a mark either way. He's going to be the one to blink himself solid. 

Beside him, Osamu is looking to find solace from the heat.

"I hope they got good air conditioning," he says, throwing his head back so that it hangs between the cradle of his shoulder blades. His hair flops backwards, stiff despite the lack of product in it.

"They might," Atsumu replies. He pats a sweaty hand over his brother's Adam's apple. "You can tell 'em you'll faint if they don't blast it on high."

Osamu scowls, pushing him away and pulling his own head back up to a proper position. "I already asked the kids in school who went last year. There's not going to be any AC." 

"You told people you were gonna be here?" Atsumu asks.

"Yeah," Osamu says matter-of-factly. "I actually do my research before going somewhere, Atsumu."

"Great," Atsumu deadpans back. "Good for you." 

He shoves his hands into his pockets. There's no point in arguing when they've reached the front of the line now; they're finally stepping foot inside.

Unfortunately, there is no AC. But where the building lacks in cool air, it makes up for in everything else.

"This is it?" Osamu asks, "We're at the right place?"

Atsumu looks to his left, where the advertised flyer is posted. _Former Japan National Setter Inuhata Akihiko. Junior Volleyball Workshop_. "Yup, this is it."

"Sheesh."

A rare moment of silence falls between the both of them as they look towards their peers. It's a crowd of real-life minesweeper— the non-stop shuffle of prepubescents and volleyballs already being bumped high. Half the children here are undoubtedly over-qualified, ready to prove their worth in something as simple as a sports game. Light pools onto the hardwood floor. Patience seems impossible.

Atsumu's about to suggest they start practicing for themselves when Osamu, suddenly energized, begins tugging at his sleeve.

"Woah, Atsumu, Atsumu. Look."

Atsumu whips his head to his brother's line of sight where

A boy propels himself past them now. He's at least ten centimeters taller than them, clad in a monochrome tracksuit and fists clenched at both sides. He strides across the gym floor as if he were drawn with the broad side of a marker, feet marked with calculated crosshatch. 

"That's Aran-kun," Osamu says. "I heard he's in the fifth grade."

Wonder propels itself into strange manifestations. Today, it comes to in the form of a breathy reply. 

"Woah."

And Aran Ojiro, having finally registered the sound of his name, turns around to find who said it.

His cheeks look like the smooth sloping shape of tamarind pods and his eyes are the same blue-grey as the big wispy clouds that come before it rains. They're paired with really, really long eyelashes, the kind that look like they could block out all kinds of dust.

Atsumu can't understand why the older boy is frowning; he's only said a single word. 

It's Osamu who interrupts the thought. "You know, he's got a foreign name."

Atsumu feels his jaw hang open. "Should I get my name changed?"

"Don't be stupid," His brother smacks Atsumu on the head with the muscled part of palm, right below his thumb. "You'll give Granny a heart attack if you do that."

"Ow," He rubs against the spot, shoving Osamu's hands off him. "Fine, whatever."

They call truce, and Atsumu trades bickering for a new thought, chin settling in the groove between his thumb and forefinger. 

"Y'know, 'Samu doesn't sound half bad."

Osamu turns to look at him, eyes wide at the new discovery.

"'Tsumu, too," he says.

"Yeah," Atsumu nods. "That's so cool."

Aran turns to them once again, eyebrows knitted in annoyance. "Can you two give it a rest?"

His voice booms with the intensity to shudder roof shingles in a gale-force wind. 

Osamu steps back. Atsumu freezes in place. 

The older boy sighs out of frustration and turns around. Atsumu watches his head grow smaller and smaller, before realizing he's leaving. He goes to tug on Osamu's sleeve this time.

"'Samu," he says, testing out the nickname once more. "Let's go stand over there."

He points to the farthest side of the gym, an open clearing tucked between two crowds of kids. The spot Aran is also walking towards. 

His brother squints, clearly not catching on. "That's the furthest away from the front."

"It's fine," Atsumu defends. "You can trash talk anyone you want back there without them hearing."

Osamu unzips his jacket all the way, letting the little breeze filter through the fabric before agreeing. 

"Fine, but I call sitting closest to the door." 

Atsumu makes a small sigh of relief. He begins walking over to the spot, shoulders pushed back and hands pulled out of his pockets to rest by his sides.

Though there are way too many sounds to tell, he knows that the squeak of his sneakers gliding across the hardwood is unlike anyone else's. Even at its loudest, it doesn't consist of a single echo. 

______________

  
  


Four years older and he's sulking inside the Inarizaki cafeteria. 10am on a Saturday. Fistfuls of rice in both his cheeks, forehead exposed to the morning light. Trying to still distinguish himself this time around. Trying maybe to recognize people he's bound to be playing with for the next three years, but still so worried about the amount of incompetence at this training camp.

"Atsu _mu_ ," Osamu calls, drawing out his name and turning it into a snake's hiss. "Are you listening to me?"

"No. What'd you say?" 

Atsumu's eyes have gone middle distance, trying desperately not to look like he was glaring at the group of boys across the room. But like always, his brother's ability to read him is impeccable.

Osamu turns around, gets a two-second glimpse of the group, and turns back to Atsumu.

"You know maybe people wouldn't hate you if you didn't glare like that."

Atsumu chews on. "I wouldn't hate them if they took me seriously."

"It's been one day," Osamu picks at his fish fillet. "It's stupid to start hating them now when you're gonna see them for the next three years."

Atsumu shrugs, shifts a leg to bend up so he's leaning against one sneakered foot on the bench. The whites of his brother's eyes look like milk and Atsumu tries to keep his mouth from tilting with annoyance. 

"I don't need to care 'bout any of you."

"I can't believe you," his brother says, his tone blighted with defeat.

"What?" Atsumu washes his food down with the ice cold water from his bottle.

"You're real serious about being a setter, huh?"

Atsumu looks at him and wishes he had daggers that could shoot out of his eyes.

He thought Akihiko-san had already molded him into something great. That he had already proved himself worthy enough to be handed over what was rightfully his. There were no words to describe the utter rejection that surged through him when Coach assigned Osamu as setter for the day. There are no words to describe his continued anger now. 

"It ain't none of your business."

"Like hell it isn't. I could tell mom that you're being a jerk just because of volleyball."

"Mom doesn't care. As long as we aren't turning her into Granny anytime soon. She said that herself," Atsumu says, triumphant. 

Osamu doesn't have time to respond, because the group of boys Atsumu was eyeing have now made their way to the twins, loud and lanky. 

"Miyas scoot over," Ginjima greets, slipping into the table. A small silver chain licks the vee of skin where his tank top billows out. "We're gonna join the party."

Suna scoffs, turning around the corner to sit next to him.

"It's not a party if Atsumu's here."

He's about to retaliate, but Osamu lets out an ugly laugh of delight. Atsumu wishes the earth could swallow him whole.

On the same bench Osamu is sitting on, Aran and Oomimi also find a seat.

Atsumu notices a nick from a shaving razor at the curve of Aran's jaw. He's a first-year in high school. His cheeks may have carved to become the flat sides of a tamarind seed rather than the pod, but he still has the same grey-blue eyes, thick eyebrows, tightly pursed lips. He's just as much solid _boy_ as he was before.

"You got me all excited for nothing." Ginjima says, still drawing out his own joke. He pulls open the tab of his fruit juice like ripping a sheet of paper. 

He and Osamu take swings as if they were actually drinking alcohol, and Atsumu continues to finish his lunch in a glaring silence. It's Suna who entertains them with stories he's collected about Inarizaki alumni, with Oomimi and Aran correcting the lore every now and then. 

Towards the end of the story about Inarizaki's quarter high finals from last spring, Osamu digs up Atsumu's wound like an evil villain. 

"You guys think that I make a better setter than 'Tsumu?" He asks, careful to keep his voice from cracking. 

Ginjima laughs, shoulders shaking from the force of it.

"Well, there's a million dollar question," he teases. "Too bad it's not for me to answer."

Suna crushes his own can of fruit juice and gets up to throw it away. "I don't have the credentials to judge either. But like you said earlier, Osamu, the best players usually have experience in everything." 

Atsumu looks ready to burst from frustration, but keeps his mouth shut. He refuses to embarrass himself even more. 

It's nearly impossible when he looks over to find his brother sporting the meanest smirk. He watches Osamu snap the elastic of his sock against his ankle before standing up to join the other two boys.

"Where are you going?" Atsumu asks.

"You're not even finished with your food," He says pointedly. "I'm gonna go actually practice my tossing." 

Atsumu slams one fist down on the table. "'Samu."

Osamu only shrugs, clearly high off his own confidence today, and goes to follow Suna. Ginjima begins trotting after them. He takes two steps before stopping and turning, a meek expression on his face when addressing his senior.

"Oomimi-san, could you help us?"

The request is met with a simple "Sure."

And with that, all four boys abandon the table, leaving Atsumu alone with his overwhelming sense of annoyance and the only boy he can say he actually looks up to. 

It's Aran who finally speaks.

"I'm not going to make fun of you or anything."

"What?" 

"You're sitting there all tense like I might joke. I promise I'm not going to."

He swallows hard, focuses on his monosyllabic answer. 

"Okay."

Atsumu doesn't dare touch his food. He feels like maybe all four walls are pressing into them. There really isn't a craving for sustenance inside him anymore. There's an ever-present appetite for something else. 

"I get angry at Coach's placements sometimes, too," Aran continues. "He can make decisions like one of us spat in his coffee that morning and he's looking for a good revenge plot." Atsumu watches him swipe at his nose. "But if you want to keep setting, then just keep setting." 

Atsumu nods.

Aran's speech is so unapologetic that he can almost always hear the functionality of it. His lips and tongue and throat operating as one. He's speaking softer than he did when they were around the other boys, all these little words reserved just for Atsumu. The eyes, the sentences, the shoulders— these pieces that composed a single unit called Aran Ojiro, still sitting in front of him, not having left. 

Atsumu wants to thank him, but he feels as if he'd choke up the second he'd try.

Instead, he settles. "I already knew you wouldn't make fun of me like that."

Aran gives half a smile and Atsumu feels warm all over. 

"Good," he affirms. "C'mon, you're finished eating now, right?"

The second Atsumu nods, Aran gets up and walks over to hover beside the table. He offers a hand, which Atsumu takes, cupping his fingers around Aran's while letting himself be hoisted up. 

Aran pulls his hand away, achingly slow, and the walls seem to pull back to make space for something else in the room to swell instead.

He's heading towards the main entrance of the gym again, and Atsumu has to take longer strides to match his pace. 

"Where are we going?"

"You're gonna be tossing to me for the next two years, aren't you?" Aran teases. "We might as well start practicing now."

______________

**ACT II. existing unapologetically**

In the team's creation myth, Atsumu secures the position of starting setter at the start of his second year.

Inarizaki's play-by-play folklore is molded out of his own stubborn clay, and all belief is placed in Atsumu's ability to conduct these boys to hit his tosses. He's selfish in the way he has always been, and maybe a little greedy when push comes to shove. Even after securing what he wanted, the list of people he can call friends fluctuates on any given day. 

That afternoon, Sunarin had voluntarily kicked himself off it with one of the worst cross shots Atsumu has ever seen. Behind buckled knees and a slam that looked nearly painful, there was an attitude of rotting rubber, a sinew-stretch cruelest when Atsumu had pointed it out and Suna only replied with an eye roll and _There he goes again._

Atsumu had stormed out of the gym and into the heat, where now, even the sun proves itself a difficult enemy. 

His own bottom is heat-sealed to the cement of the gym's back entrance steps. He's been absentmindedly pulling at weeds, feeling like walls of his body could curl into themselves.

"You should try talking to it," Aran teases. He's only been outside for a few minutes in a pious attempt to bring Atsumu back to practice. So far, it's been to no avail. "Some people say it's therapeutic, or somethin'." 

"You really think that?" Atsumu drops two handfuls of grass onto the next step, watching them scatter like confetti down to the infertile soil. Now, with their shoulders pressed against each other, there is no telling whose body is warmer. 

"Hey, you never know." Aran's brows are drawn at a curious angle─ one arched higher than the other─ full lips pursed, jaw tilted down. "It could be lonely," he continues, crooning. "It could be a sad little thing." 

"I am not talking to the sun," Atsumu says with finality.

"Fine," Aran snaps back.

Atsumu almost feels bad for him. It's not his fault that his setter was born with too much tendon and tension, not enough wiggle room. Sometimes Atsumu's attitude comes unsolicited, like the mess of brown and blood right before a bruise. And some days there's no trying to bargain with someone who has never understood the notion of “enough." 

The old pep talks don't work the way they used to. There's different angles he's been trying to take. 

"I feel like I'm five years old," Atsumu admits. "I feel like I'm the little cousin you gotta make sure doesn't cry."

To his luck, Aran lets out a laugh, hearty with disbelief, as if the comparison is so mind-bogglingly amusing. His head rocks back and forth, the sound ringing full. 

"I'd never get 'em to talk to the sun," he replies, resting both hands on top of his knees. "They'd probably burn their eyes trying to look up and spit at it."

Atsumu would probably do the same thing if he were still ten.

"So what, other than that I'm just someone you gotta deal with?"

"No, no."Aran shakes his head emphatically. "I care about you, Atsumu. Even when you're dense as bone."

Atsumu hums in affirmation and leans back against his palms. He can't argue with that truth. 

Aran turns to look at him. "You know what works on my cousins, though?" 

"What?" He waits for him to tell his story, to breathe life into a simple history. 

"Treats," Aran says. "A lot of my aunts got a war against sugar going on, it's never anywhere in their houses." He crosses both hands out in the air in front of them, as if to emphasize his point. "So every time I have something candy-adjacent, the kids go nuts. They'll do anything."

Atsumu looks up at him. "What's something candy-adjacent?"

"Gum."

Atsumu tries not to let out a laugh, but he lets out a cough, patting his chest.

The whole thing is so unapologetically Aran Ojiro. Not only has Atsumu surrendered to his ace's logic one too many times, in one too many situations, but he has been a participating member himself. 

It was Aran who indulged him in a world of eating fruit at Kansai Super. When they were hungry, there was no shame in leaving banana peels in the cart. They carried apple stickers as evidence on their forearms and stumped the old ladies at the cash register. Snacks were always paid for it at the end, carrying even less bags on the way out. 

And when casual dining, if Aran wasn't done with his drink, he would just leave with it. He'd meet some part-time worker at the nearest fast food chain doorway with a plastic cup of soda in one hand and quick, exasperated reasoning for a refill request. Thirst was quenched, the art of reusing was mastered. 

It was Aran who taught him that a law doesn't have to come carrying its own logic. Sometimes you just have to unfurl the mindstretch past typical reasoning to find it. 

He's smiling now, knowing he's won once again. 

Maybe Atsumu did have to send his condolences to the sun. Half-past dawn could very well be something that needed attention and care, after all.

He turns to look at the boy next to him, blinks back his own stubbornness. "If I say sorry to Suna, will you give me a piece of gum?"

Aran feigns consideration, rubbing at his chin. "Spearmint, peppermint, or grape?" 

"Doesn't matter," Atsumu says, dusting off his hands. "Surprise me.

"Alright, deal." Aran begins to stand up. 

Behind them, the sun casts a shadow on the pile of weeds as if it were a funeral send-off. Atsumu hoists himself up from the ground as well, trying to pull the words of an apology out from behind his own teeth. 

Unfortunately, it's not as difficult as he makes it out to be.

  
  


______________

  
  


During Spring Interhigh of Atsumu's third year, there's a strange surge of resolve running through him like never before. 

The high ceilings of this Tokyo stadium let light spill in like a promise. After all these months of being the prey, the snapped twig behind a jump, the cast and castaway. He is now the heatwave and obligation and commodity all wrapped into one boy. 

Before the game has even started the headlines read, _Never Before Seen: Last Year's Defeat Giving Way to New Confidence._

Because Atsumu's got his posture taut, eyes peeled to follow the swift toss up of today's deciding coin. He's feeling lucky as the lightweight thing summersaults once, twice. It suspends in midair before being plucked and pressed flat against the back of the referee's hand. 

Blue. 

The crowd cheers and he walks back to the sidelines with the ball tucked under his arm like an orb of fire.

"No taking it easy on them, okay?" Suna taunts, though his gaze is still locked onto a blond-haired middle-blocker over the net.

"Speak for yourself," Osamu huffs, stretching out his left arm last minute. "'Tsumu's easy could still beat their best."

"Hey, Vice? Number 3? Could both of you shut up?"

They hold their bickering, but not without half-baked scoffs. 

During his last year in high school, Atsumu finds solace in the need to prove he is unafraid. He grows out and over veins, cartilage, the skip and scuffle of sidewalk. He makes amends with the bodies on his side of the court. He knows if he were to pull victory to him, it would come in the shape of a thread from the hem of his own jersey. 

It had been a funny change of philosophy. Before, Atsumu used to think the only way to carry courage was to stack it into your own spine. He wanted it to manifest itself in grand gestures like lifting an entire car with his shoulders stung obtuse, or running marathon with motion bundled together by sore feet. 

But it only came to him in the smallest stretch of muscle. 

At the end of his second year, in the dingy room down the hall, Kita had said something small. There was a blessing, a word of gratitude, and he gripped Atsumu's hand to say _I know you'll do your best._

Aran was proving himself unafraid, so he followed. His gift consisted of a nod, an affirmation of _We'll see eachother soon_ . Atsumu, in return, had heard his own mouth finally say _Thank you_.

He was undone by how faint their handshake was. It was the culmination of all the afternoons they had spent in this gym together, wet towels pressed against their necks as they tried to rewind old game footage on tape. It was the end to all the times Aran pushed his stainless steel bottle towards Atsumu as an offering, water accompanied by two cups of cooling ice. Of the instances in which they would sneak off past lights-out during their last spring training camp just to watch reruns of Sazae-san, shoulders brushing against each other with the shake of brash laughter.

Aran had retracted his hand just as achingly slow as he did before, and that was all it took for Atsumu to be proven wrong.

Fearlessness exists in all the gentle gestures he has ever known.

"Serves up!"

At the whistle, Atsumu rounds his arm like a cradle. Breathes in, exhales, and tosses the ball up in one gentle, gliding motion. 

It's easy now— the way his legs propel him forward until the moment his knees bend and he pushes up from the floor to jump. His shoulder turns itself so palm hits leather right at its center. 

One smacking sound later and the ball shoots down like an asteroid. 

Spinning. Spinning. Spinning. 

Untouchable, up until the moment it slams against the pavement. 

The crowd erupts into cheer before a whistle is even blown, and then—

"Yeah Atsumu!!" A voice calls from the stands. 

He looks up, tracking the sound. 

Wonder propels itself into strange manifestations. Today, it comes to Atsumu in the form of Aran Ojiro, calling his name from Inarizaki's cheering section.

He's standing up, hands cupped around his mouth to help propel the sound of his voice. And Kita is beside him, pride written into the wrinkles of knuckles that grip the ledge in front of him. 

Atsumu gives the smallest wave of a hand and it comes as a surprise to no one when he receives two waves back. 

Later, the Inarizaki crowd would pile out of the gym and Atsumu would break his neck trying to search for the two in the sea full of people. He would wrap his arms around each man, thank them for coming. He would finally hear the stories of university told through from their all-knowing eyes, and somewhere along the way, Kita would mention how he's been craving tapioca pearls drenched in some milk tea. And they would find themselves taking the whole team out for something as small— something as big— as cold drinks, everything bubbling up to pure happiness. 

But for now, the all-encompassing moment lasts only a few seconds— just as temporary as the score on the flipping board. Just as fleeting as an insignificant memory.

Because the whistle blows and the ball is passed into his hands once again. Atsumu steps backwards behind the line and restarts, ready to land the second service ace of the game.

______________

**ACT III. finding the shape that fits again**

He doesn't freak out at the sight of familiarity, but this game has warped it into something a little different.

They're standing in a hallway in Sendai in the middle of November. It's packed with all the energy for something so highly anticipated. 

Hinata no longer stiffens into a posture of fear and pressure. Instead, he's slouched into his MSBY hoodie, eyes shining with wonder. Bokuto's watching the scene unfold, his back pressed against the wall, Kageyama beside him. 

It's Sakusa, face-masked and hands hidden, who's only a few meters away from Ushijima. They're speaking of something passed, something indicating Sakusa's dead-serious desire for victory.

"We're going to win today," he says through his mask. 

"Good luck with that." 

Hoshiumu nods. "We'll be the ones beating you again this time," he affirms.

Sakusa turns away. "I wasn't talking to you."

For some reason, Atsumu feels the sentence directed at him. He's probably said a dozen off-handed comments now; they've all flown over the heads of the other men. His presence hasn't exactly amounted to great charm. It more or less resulted in an eye twitch or a flat mouth.

Atsumu likes to think that maybe the only other person who would actually get his humor would be someone rooted in the same home. 

He remembers the postcard Aran had sent from Kyoto, one ragged with a coffee stain, yellowed from the sun. His handwriting was narrow, never seemed to say enough or have enough to say. Atsumu kept it in the top drawer of his dresser, turned its face down. Despite the nature it tried to showcase, the lurid lighting and colors seemed too artificial, draped over the insular pockets of paradise somewhere past the temple roof. 

_Text me when you get this_ , it said.

Atsumu did. He told him all about the Jackals— a story that spans the course of months, condensed into only a few sentences. He spoke of each of his three great monster spikers, and the way he was able to orchestrate them all. But it didn't carry any of his excitement, and it lacked any inflection of his own voice. 

Aran had tried to do the same with the Falcons, his larger-than-life presence falling flat through the phone. He said he would try to make it to a game, and if not, well then they were bound to play against each other soon. Atsumu agreed, though the notion of facing him off still seems so far away.

He wonders what Aran would say if he saw the quick now. 

He just wants someone to understand his joke, that's the thing. He just wants someone to feel the same way.

He falls back into the present conversation. "C'mon, Omi-kun. Do you always have to be so prickly 'bout everything? What are you, a sea urchin?"

In front of him, Sakusa's got the same blank expression on his face. 

Except now it's multiplied by four.

"Atsumu-san, I thought it was funny!" Hinata must be so incredibly perceptive, because he stands beside Atsumu now, trying to plaster a tone that's half pity, half hero.

"You're all killing me," Atsumu mutters, giving up. 

He waits for the words to stick just right. He tries not to explain everything away. 

When he blinks, even that falls flat. 

______________

  
  


Professional Volleyball Player Aran Ojiro is still an expert in pavlov.

Half his team has already gone back to the locker room, but Atsumu has stayed by to watch the post-game moments unfold. And he isn't surprised to see that even after five sets, Aran still walks around the sidelines of the court commanding the attention of his fans.

He hasn't changed at all.

A little boy comes up to the bench now, trying to grab Aran's duffel bag in an attempt to root around in the pockets. The outside hitter himself only laughs and places something in the child's palm— a green wrapped rectangle, straight from a black box package. 

"Gum!" 

Aran pats his head and goes on to supply mint to the next kid. Brats that they are, they begin to fashion darts out of the gum paper, spitting them at each other. Brats that they are, some beg for more. Some ask others to trade, so they can amass all the chewing gum to make their own monster bubbles. Brats that they are, only a few say thank you.

Atsumu watches as Aran says goodbye to them all, hoisting up his duffel bag and walking over to the back entrance where he had been watching. 

Once he reaches the entrance, Atsumu finally has the chance to speak to him alone for the first time today. 

"I thought you only gave the gum when you wanted something in return," he taunts.

Aran shuffles past him without a word. 

"Aran-kun," he calls, thinking he didn't hear him. 

Silence.

"Aran-kun?"Atsumu is repeating his name, but the man has begun speed walking, long strides of steps down the hallway, his duffel bag swinging back and forth from the force. "Aran-kun!"

Atsumu's taking flight past the carpet floor, trying to reach the shoulder that keeps threatening to disappear from him. It takes him three near-lunges to reach him.

He swings one arm out, letting it land on Aran's shoulder, and swings him around with full force. 

"What's wrong?" He demands.

He searches Aran's face in hurried confusion only to find that the man is smiling. Wide. The entire-face kind of smile, with the teeth and all the ridges, lips pulled back, lines under his eyes curving up. 

He had been smiling this whole time. 

Aran's cheeks are full and rouged when he finally admits it. "I was pretending not to know you." 

"What— why!?" 

"The kids were watching us on the way out!" Aran says, nudging Atsumu out the door before they see them together and make an even bigger scene. "I wanted to look cool." 

They reach the outdoors, shoes clumping softly against the pavement. 

"Well now _I_ look stupid," Atsumu realizes, still in shock.

Aran laughs now, brassy and rich. "That was kind of the point."

Atsumu's fist comes up to thwack his shoulder.

"Hey," Aran twists his torso away. "Don't be angry at me, I needed it. You already won the game, anyways." 

"Fine," Atsumu replies, and they continue walking. "You can have it."

He feels giddy. Or something akin to the force of five suns all shoved into his chest. He had been so worried about how different it was to speak to him on the phone, but Aran is still the same. He is the wet rock after twelve hours of rain. He has never been anything but sturdy, persistent, unchanged.

It's only after a few moments of walking does he speak again.

"You did really good today, by the way." 

"Thanks," Atsumu replies. He has found it easier to give gratitude nowadays. He has found it a lot easier to find the right words for what he wants to say. "It's still a little weird seeing you on the other side." 

"It is," Aran agrees. "Wish I could have been there to see you face off against Rin. That must've been something."

"That was a good one," Atsumu says. "Same result as today. It'll probably be the same result to any future upcoming Jackals game."

"Don't get too full of yourself," Aran warns.

"I won't."

"Because the second you lose I don't want to have to book a flight to you and give another pep talk."

Atsumu shakes his head. "You don't need to do that. I could get a pep talk from anyone nowadays."

"Sure you can," Aran agrees. "But a pep talk from your childhood crush? That's something else." 

Atsumu freezes. 

"Huh?" 

Aran stops in his tracks and turns to look at him. "What?"

"What do you mean 'childhood crush'?" Atsumu asks, heart climbing up his throat. 

"I mean exactly what I mean," Aran blinks at a normal rate. He is dead serious.

"No, you mean— "

"You can't tell me you didn't have at least a little bit of a crush on me in high school?"

Atsumu tries to hide any hint of blush starting to bloom on his face. 

"No, no, no," He laughs incredulously. Shakes his palms in defense. "I did _not_ have a crush on you. If I knew back then, I would've done a better job."

Aran raises an eyebrow. "What does a better job look like?"

"Well," Atsumu searches his face, settles on staring at the skin below his eyebrow, above his eyelid. "I wouldn't have been so goddamn needy. I'd at least have tried to look cool in front of you."

"You were cool," Aran counters. 'I would never have given you a second look if I didn't think you had something in you." 

"Then I would've probably dressed better." 

"Atsumu." Aran rolls his eyes and drops the strap of his duffel bag to reach out. He takes Atsumu's wrists in his hands— warm and strong, and ever-familiar— to stop their movement. "It really doesn't take a genius to know."

Atsumu is trying not to stare, but the only thing to see is a stratus cloud paralleled by another stratus cloud. "Are you calling me stupid?"

Aran sighs, pulling him closer. "I'm trying not to."

Atsumu wonders if he ever caught on to the too-long stares, the way Atsumu circled him like he was orbiting the sun, how steady he held his gaze. He had wanted to confess every part of it, how it felt then in training camp, whispering to each other through the dark abyss of night. How it feels now, to have someone know you, instead of having to make yourself be known. 

In front of him, Aran's lips move and there are words, but Atsumu doesn't catch them. 

"What?" Atsumu says again.

"Can I kiss you?" the lips say.

The night air echoes these syllables around the two of them. There is no one around to impress. 

Atsumu's lips reply. "Yes."

And like a mirror, the two move towards each other.

Warm, sticky, skin. Molten lava in his blood. Shy, boyish impotence in his brain. Aran is kissing him as the night stills around them and his hand releases Atsumu's wrist to reach up and cup his jaw, the other hand on his back and Atsumu finds sweetness in their mutual functionality. It's a soft-swerve, closed-eyed, open-mouthed, full-throttle, unapologetic kiss. 

And even as they pull away, Atsumu is waiting for more. 

______________

**ACT IV. growing under the same sun**

Their Olympic housing unit is versatile, understanding, small. It lacks a chandelier, and a lamp, and even a ceiling fan. There is no light except for each other, but Atsumu can live with that. He is twelve mega watts and Aran has a UV 400 gaze. 

When Atsumu swings the door open, he isn't surprised to find Aran standing in front of the large, spread-out mirror. There's a container of face wash on the counter─ and a bottle of toner to its right, a jar of moisturizing cream to its left. Aran's profile is pieced together by the skin where white soap suds haven't already pressed into pore. 

"Should I leave?" He jokes out of formality. 

Aran turns to look at him. There's a thin slather of foam on the side of his temple that stays put with the movement, clings onto his face so that it doesn't fly off in a flurry of bubbles. 

"No," he replies, playing along. "You can stay."

Aran turns on the sink without waiting for a response and ducks down to wash. Atsumu shoves a row of skin and hair care products so he can perch on the counter, kicking his feet up against the wall, so they act like a flat bridge.

"How was the press conference?" He asks. 

"It was fine," Atsumu replies. "Boring." 

Aran hums and bumps Atsumu's legs with his hips, the bridge collapsing and his knees falling against the counter.

It had been one of the best press conferences he'd been to this week. He's played enough games with these men to know how each of them reacts, and sitting next to Kageyama as a partner, as a person on his team, was something else. It felt like Atsumu had finally lived to tell the tale, that he had made it. Dozens of flashing lights and he was no longer a novice in the art of presenting himself larger than life. He had people hanging off his every word like they cared. 

He hopes Aran gets it.

In the mirror reflection in front of him, the slope of his neck is swan-like and strong over the rushing water. Atsumu tries to catch the second his eyes open to glance up at the mirror. Aran holds his gaze for a split second, all big storm clouds blue and grey, only for it to be broken by the splash of water against his face.

Tossing for him again feels like cracking open a locket that was once unsure of itself, like finally releasing the airtight lid of a plastic container and letting all the air rush in. Atsumu likes the rare thrill he gets when they are on the court at the same time, at opposite diagonal ends, like two corners of a blanket that only touch when folded together. 

He's had Osamu text him one too many times about how they need to stop eyeing each other like _that_ on live television because, _Dammit, Atsumu, there are kids watching._ Atsumu had only sent a few texts back, including one with just a middle finger emoticon because it felt fitting. But after a while, even Aran had gotten annoyed with Atsumu's advances. He's still got a bruise on his head to speak for the flirting he tried to pull before their match against Argentina. 

Now, After a few more rinses, Aran finally shuts off the faucet and turns to mutter a few words that Atsumu can't make out.

"What?"

"The towel."

He reaches around Atsumu's waist to grab the towel folded onto the counter. In a way, they're almost embracing, Aran's body stretching out over his legs, Aran's chest pressing against his knees. Atsumu notices the water droplets making an even descent down the side of his face. He feels one land onto his own thigh and ends up following the movement against his skin, transfixed in that slow-drip mirage of a single transparent mark. 

The man in front of him blindly pats once, twice. 

Atsumu snaps into himself, warm all over, and realizes he should probably help. 

"Here," He says, picking up the towel in one stiff, robotic movement and pressing it to his chest. 

"Thanks."

Aran grabs it from him with both hands, hurrying to dry off his skin and be done with the whole ordeal. 

As he finishes up and starts to tidy up all the toiletries, Atsumu hops off the counter and begins peeling off his own shirt. When he finally frees his head from the fabric, he's back to seeing Aran's freshly washed face. 

He looks good like this, Atsumu can admit. He hasn't shaved in a few weeks now, but the facial hair fits him, enough for Atsumu to keep looking. 

And Aran's looking back. His eyes trail down the now-exposed skin, lingering over the fading marks below Atsumu's collarbone, the ones just low enough to be hidden by their red jerseys. He had been precise with his placement, overbearing with his delivery. 

"Are you waiting for me to take the rest of my clothes off?"

Atsumu feigns innocence, folding up his t-shirt onto the counter as Aran realizes he's been staring and groans out of annoyance. Atsumu smiles because he knows exactly what the other man is thinking. It's all too predictable, too familiar. 

"I'm not showering with you," he announces. "I just finished washing and it's Sunday."

"Okay," Atsumu sighs. He toys with the leather of his own belt, slow, letting the buckle slide out from its confine. "I guess I'll just meet you afterwards." 

Aran pinches the bridge of his nose, takes an exaggerated inhale. "Don't use up all the hot water again, or someone's going to be banging on our door." 

He leaves the bathroom and Atsumu finally laughs to himself, as the strip-tease is abandoned and the rest of his pants fall down to the floor. 

From the other side of the door, he can hear the TV playing the familiar opening theme to a show that Atsumu is sure no one else their age is watching. 

______________

The streets this morning are cast in pink. 

It's before morning, before the sun fully rises, and everything is a little cold around the edges. They weren't supposed to come this early, but Aran didn't want to run the risk of being unprepared. So now, no longer the morning person he once was, Atsumu suppresses a yawn while attempting to walk back to the table.

He looks up and Aran is staring at him― mouth flat, both hands folded over his chest.

"What is it?" Atsumu asks, blinking back sleep.

He points up to the flyer posted on the front door. "Re-tape that right now."

"Why? What's wrong with it?"

"It's― look at it!" Aran's eyes widen. "It's so crooked, no one will be able to read that." 

He's walking over there with a roll of tape now, taking matters into his own hands.

"No one has to actually _read_ it," Atsumu complains back. "They just have to see our faces. They'll know what we're here for." 

But Aran is already peeling the paper down with caution in the event that it could rip, pressing it up against the metal so he can remove Atsumu's half-assed tape job and re-do it himself. 

Atsumu turns to search the table for the canister of coffee, letting it pour down his throat, warm and bitter. He jugs at least half of it; he'll need it for later. Aran had always been better with the kids, naturally energetic from the crack of dawn, able to round them all up like a corral and keep their attention span from breaking.

Atsumu can't say he hasn't snapped at least once or twice, but he's been getting better. Last year, he had met a pair of twins. Two girls, both competing for the position of middle blocker. The elder one had told Atsumu that she had watched his Jackals games with her father, and she never knew he had a twin until they visited an actual game, with the Onigiri Miya stand stationed out in the front. 

She had been very talented, and seeing kids like that grow into themselves made Atsumu feel better about his own journey. He wanted to give that fire back to them. The small stuff didn't matter to him. 

Aran, who is usually lenient about many things, demands today to be flawless. 

"Does it look better now?" He asks.

Atsumu squints his eyes so he can make out the print. 

_Former Japan National Team Players Aran Ojiro & Atsumu Miya. Junior Volleyball Workshop. _

"It looks good to me," he chides, placing a hand on the table to steady himself.

"Good," Aran nods. "Nice." 

He looks at him for a moment, and it's like he knows. It's like he feels the same contentment buried deep in his stomach. And then he's looking away, walking back to place the roll of tape on his table and wiping his hands on his track pants.

"Should we turn on the ceiling fans?"

Atsumu puts the bottle down. "Yeah, it might get hot. No AC, though."

"I know."

Atsumu watches him turn to open the doors where the nets and balls and all the other equipment has been stored. Aran starts to whistle. It's an old tune, something simple. But it keeps Atsumu alert, keeps him from falling onto the hardwood floor and curling up into a nap. 

Even when he walks deep inside the closet, Atsumu can still hear his boyfriend, can track his movement like he did once in this gym years before, can feel the noise echo in his chest. 

In some ways, he feels the same as he did when he was ten years old. Just as nervous, hoping he'll be loved, revered, championed. Hoping that the people he meets today will like the stories he is dying to tell, and that he won't melt on the spot from embarrassment.

Aran comes out of the closet carrying a folded up net and Atsumu realizes, like he did once before, that the room exists just for the two of them. They stand ground― full of life, and solid. 

**Author's Note:**

> boop. ily thank u for reading


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